<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Polaris Rising by DemoiselleRouge</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256405">Polaris Rising</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemoiselleRouge/pseuds/DemoiselleRouge'>DemoiselleRouge</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), Child Abuse, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Metamorphmagus Harry Potter, Smart Harry Potter, Tags Are Hard, Vernon Dursley Being an Asshole, Vernon Dursley Dies, what even are these tags</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:21:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,678</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256405</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemoiselleRouge/pseuds/DemoiselleRouge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When an abusive Vernon Dursley sends Dudley and Petunia away for the weekend so he can beat his nephew in peace, a burst of accidental magic leaves our hero alone with a corpse and memories of a life that isn't his. What's a horcrux to do? Live out of spite, of course.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Polaris Rising</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I do not own Harry Potter, obviously. Constructive criticism is welcome. This is my first fic, so please be kind. I would like to thank the lovely Stubs1101 for being such a huge help and putting up with my rambling.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Boy lifts the frying pan from the heat carefully and turns to plate it for his <em>family</em> at the table. He has not burned this batch though he still cannot see over the top of the stove. His cooking has improved greatly of late and not even Vernon could find a complaint with it. If he can learn to master his emotions as he has mastered the kitchen, maybe he can fool the Dursleys into thinking that he isn’t a freak? Maybe he can make up for his <em>accidents? </em>As if it is his fault that his hair sometimes changes colors under duress or that his face sometimes ripples like water<em>.</em> But . . . if he can get his shape-changing under control then maybe he can convince Petunia to let him start attending school. He should have started this year when he turned six, same as Dudley. He would worry about being behind his peers, but he has been sneaking from his cupboard at night and reading over the assignments by moonlight. And if, occasionally, a particularly nice biro or notebook should go missing, well it isn’t as though Dudley will notice that anyone had touched his school things.</p><p> As he nears the table with the hot skillet he trips over the hem of his pants, hand me downs several sizes too big. The pan tilts dangerously toward him as its contents pops and sizzles. For just a moment in his desperation he thinks the handle turns in the opposite direction, but it is so <em>heavy, </em>and he hasn’t eaten anything but tinned soup and toast in so <em>long</em>. Then the moment is over, and grease pours down the underside of his right forearm. The pan slips from his grasp, leaving a dent in the linoleum, grease and bacon splattering his legs. He already knows how this will end.</p><p>Dudley watches him with a cruel little smile, the kind one might wear while they tear the wings off butterflies and legs off spiders. Boy has always been partial to spiders; they keep him company in the dark. Boy’s uncle leaps to his feet with such alacrity that his chair hits the floor with a great THUD. Vernon’s face darkens from his usual red, to purple, then puce, jowls quivering in rage. He crosses the kitchen and snatches Boy up by his arm. His knuckles whiten as he gives it a great <em>squeeze</em>, the frail bones grinding audibly. Petunia, content to remain silent until this point, squawks, “Vernon! The neighbors!” Her eyes flit to the bay window, gauzy white curtains open wide, through which much of Privet Drive is visible. Vernon snarls, “Piss on the neighbors”, then drags Boy to his cupboard and tosses him inside. Boy hits the wall headfirst and goes still.</p><p>When he wakes, Boy huddles at the back of his cupboard and tries to get his bearings. He must have slept longer than he thought - he can see daylight through the slats in his door and all that is left of the burn on his arm is a silvery splotch. The white starbursts behind his eyes have stopped but he still feels sick, his head throbbing as though it may split in two. He peers at the wall behind him to see if he has gone through the dry wall - if he has, he will be punished. Never mind that his uncle was the one who threw him into it. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the untarnished wall, he must have hit a stud, he had heard everything about them when Vernon had tried to explain to a whining Dudley why he can’t hang a fourth telly in his main bedroom. At least Boy will only receive the one punishment.</p><p>Boy flinches when heavy footsteps reach the top of the staircase and begin descending, dust and plaster coating his hair. “BOY! Get out here! I’ve thought long and hard about your punishment.” Boy hears the deadbolt slide in its track and the clink of the chain, then the door to the cupboard shakes with the force of his uncle’s knuckles. Then silence. He knows that if he does not go out on his own, then his uncle will drag him out. Boy steps out of his cupboard, his hands still on the door, hesitating to enter his uncle’s range. When he looks up, his uncle is no longer in the entrance way but seated on the floral-patterned love seat in the living room, just visible through the doorway. “Come here, Boy”, Vernon’s voice is calm. Alarm bells in Boy’s head scream - something is <em>wrong</em>.</p><p>Boy steps closer. Two then three then eight steps and he is in the living room. He feels trapped. Boy turns to look back at the doorway, to his cupboard. To the right of the entrance is a shelf, only of note because Dudley had been perched precariously on a dining room chair, fiddling with his father’s bowling bag the night before last, unzipping the zipper to get a better look at Vernon’s prized lucky ball. Petunia had made him get down lest he fall and crack his skull upon. Dudley had eventually gotten down, his tantrum stalled by a bribe from Aunt Petunia.</p><p>“BOY! You will do as you are told, now come here!” Vernon is quickly becoming livid, face contorting at the thought of being ignored. Boy jumps and turns to look at his uncle, he had not realized the man had been speaking. He steps closer to his uncle against his better judgement, “Uncle Vernon, where are Aunt Petunia and Dudley?” “I sent them to stay with Marge while we settle this once and for all. I told Tuney when you first arrived that we had to tear this freakishness out by the root. Well, she hasn’t got the stomach for it, but I do.”  Vernon’s breath washes over Boy’s face, rife with the stink of whiskey. The man’s hand lashes out and he snags Boy’s overlarge shirt, reeling him in like a fish on a hook. “You’ve been acting out because you want attention, haven’t you, Boy? Well, you can act out all you want, you ungrateful whelp! It isn’t going to get you anywhere! You have got some nerve, wasting food. It isn’t enough for you to eat us out of house and home or destroy our fine things, now you want to waste our money too?! I won’t stand for it! Not in my house!” Spittle flies from his lips, “You aren’t going to end up like your drunk father or your whore mother! I am going to make a DECENT, NORMAL person out of you, if it’s the LAST THING I DO!”</p><p>Vernon unbuckles his belt, yanking it from the belt loops viciously. Boy panics and shouts out, “NO!” and a nearby vase shatters, water pouring across the white carpet as the boy makes a run for his cupboard.  Vernon lunges for Boy, tackling him to the ground. Panic overwriting all else, Boy whips around and buries his teeth into Vernon’s hand, right between the thumb and index finger. He is backhanded for his trouble, his nose giving way with a crunch and he <em>cannot breathe</em>, there is <em>no air</em>, he is <em>drowning</em>.</p><p>
  <em>A man in a priest’s garb is leaning over him, pouring holy water into his nose and mouth as he gasps and sputters, his tiny chest heaving.</em>
</p><p>Then the priests are gone, and it is his uncle leaning over him, knees pinning down his legs as he raises the belt.</p><p>
  <em>“It’s for your own good, Riddle!” The priest is back, barely giving him time to take a breath before he pours water into his nose and mouth, all the while whispering, “We are trying to help you, Tom, don’t you see that? Don’t you want your soul to be saved, my son? I know this hurts - but you must fight it! Cast the wickedness from your soul! Accept Christ into your heart and beg for his forgiveness. You were born of evil and sin Tom, but you do not have to die in it!” Tom snarls at the man, teeth bared like an animal.</em>
</p><p>His Uncle or is it the unknown priest? Who is hurting him?! The images overlap.</p><p>
  <em>The man takes frightened steps back until he stumbles into the wall. Above his head a massive crucifix begins to shake, the nails and hooks holding it upright begin pushing themselves out of the wall.</em>
</p><p>Vernon snarls bringing the belt down on Boy’s chest, stomach, back, wherever he can hit him. Boy screams and tries to flee - surging towards the door. But Vernon tackles him again, sending them crashing into the wall so hard that the shelf above them shakes. The bowling ball bag, never secured after Dudley’s tantrum, turns onto its side with the lid falling open.</p><p><strike>Boy</strike> <em><strike>Tom</strike></em> THEY <em>scream</em> <em>and the room quakes, the crucifix falling then landing in a splatter of gore and brain matter. His face is streaked with blood.</em></p><p>Boy opens his eyes, wincing at the tenderness in his face. A gentle touch confirms it, blood and pain equal a broken nose. Instead of enraged shouts, there is only silence. Boy knows something is wrong, but his mind won’t work. When he blinks the white spots from his vision, Vernon is still pinning him to the floor his neck at an unnatural angle.</p><p>Boy moves from under Vernon’s corpse though he does not go far. Boy has lived before. Those were his memories. He does not know how or why, but he is Twice born. Boy rolls those thoughts over in his mind. They feel right and it would make sense too. He has always known things he should not know like where babies come from, how to put out a grease fire, and why the sky is blue. He can read and write and knows so many big words even though he has never gone to school. He hesitantly says it aloud, “My name is Tom Riddle, and I am not a freak.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>